The Pro and Con Job
by Cathartes
Summary: There are men behind her, and dogs.
1. Men with Dogs

_I do not own the TV show Leverage and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**)()()()(**

There are men, with dogs.

They are behind her – not too far behind, Parker judges, and getting closer all the time.

She runs through the trees as branches reach down to grab her hair. She cannot see her way in the dark, but moves by feel, her sure feet finding ways her eyes can't see. It's a clear night – a good night to be running – it's very beautiful. Parker loves to run.

"Parker, can you make it to the road?" Nate is tense, but not panicking – not yet. He does not hear the dogs barking.

"Can't talk, running," says Parker, between breaths.

She likes dogs well enough, for the most part – not like horses, which everybody knows are murderous. In this case, however, they make things difficult. It is dark, there are trees, Parker could hide - she is very good at hiding – and the men would never find her, in the dark.

But dogs.

So, she will have to hurry.

It was a clean con, right up until the very end. Sophie was the inside man (woman?), and she got into the warehouse easily, casing the security. They only needed one file from the mainframe.

It wasn't hard to get in – Parker picked the lock on the gate and Eliot busted in the back door, without a sound, in one swift blow. Hardison hacked the security from the office, long enough for Parker to swing herself into the crawl space.

Nobody made a mistake. It was just one of those things - a guard was looking at the screen at exactly the wrong moment, and when Hardison made the switch to the loop feed, the guard noticed the flicker. The guard summoned more guards. They swept the hallway.

Parker was already inside, safely tucked away in a vent. Before anybody reached the computer room, she had already made the connection to the network and the file was uploaded miles away, where it could be used again the bad men who kept a warehouse way out in the woods filled with dirty secrets.

But there was no way out.

Eliot at the back door, Nate in the van, and Parker on the wrong side of the compound – across all that open space, which was now fully illuminated, with no place to hide. She'd smashed the computer so that no one could follow it back to Hardison, leaving the shattered pieces on the floor where they fell because it didn't matter any more. Then quickly, quickly, she followed the fresh air through the ducts to an access shaft, with an exit which was close to a wicked barb wire fence . . .

Parker likes to jump fences. She climbs them just for fun, even barbed wire, just to pass the time. She likes to fling herself upside-down over the top, like a gymnast at the vault. And it was so easy to slip into the dark forest, where the secretive trees could easily conceal a clever thief.

But now the men with dogs are behind her, and the road is still far away, and Nate's voice is sounding tighter in her ear, saying, "Parker, they've blocked off the road, we can't get to you, there's a blockade at the bridge, Parker, we're turning around, we're going to take the back road out, gun it, Eliot, Parker . . . Parker - "

And they are hungry, those dogs – she can hear their terrible eagerness, their lust – she knows the feeling, since she also loves to run.

Now she barrels out of the trees, and she can see the bridge, the bridge where Nate said that the men with guns were waiting. Parker can see the lights of their flashlights coming towards her.

Instead of turning towards the road, Parker scrambles down the steep side of the river, studded with crumbling, heavy blocks of cement. It is very far - a fatal decent - but Parker is good at climbing, even free-climbing in the dark over sharp blocks, and she knows how to take a fall, a half-fall that is like an intentional drop. Parker is covering ground. Those dogs are close, they are close to the bank, but Parker is closer to the water.

"Okay, here's the plan," says Nate, as Parker strips off her pants and shakes the legs to fill them with air. "Your cover is that you're a mental patient, you'll have to turn yourself in, there's no way around it. And Sophie will make a call as the Health Service, looking for you, and we'll send in a team –

Parker makes quick knots in the pant legs and tosses her shoes around her neck.

"Just pretend not to understand whatever they ask you, maybe try talking about mollusks or crustaceans, that should convince them –

Parker staggers into the dark water, which is quickly up to her knees, and then there's nothing under her feet, she is swimming – and oh, the water is _cold_, it's very very cold –

"Parker? Parker!"

She pushes off into the deeper water, trying to get out into the current so she will be pulled downstream faster than she can swim, faster than a dog can run, faster than a man can shoot bullets at a bobbing shape. It's the wrong direction, away from Nate and Eliot, away from Sophie and Hardison, but it's away from the men and the dogs, and that's good enough for her.

"_Parker!_"

But the next minute Parker ducks under the water and the comms crackle out. Hardison made them very tough – and she has certainly pushed their limits a couple times, so she would know – but enough water kills anything.

Parker isn't an actress – she wasn't going to be able to convince anybody, it's Sophie who could charm her way out of a paper bag. And there is a busted door, a broken computer, and the shoved-out grate of an air shaft to belie her story. Parker is a thief, already half-gone before you see her, and men with guns and dogs would tear her apart.

What if she led them back to the team, what if she ruined everything? No, this is better, this is _free_.

The current is so fast, and she knows – just knows – that there are rocks ahead, and it's hard to hold on to the bobbing pants, which are only half-full of air anyway. She feels her shoes loosening around her neck – she didn't have time to tie the laces properly – and she lets them go, feels them brush past her and behind, as she is hurtled through the shoot of water. And with every second she is getting further and further away.

It's funny, thinks Parker, that with the water so black and cold, and with the sky black and the wind cold, it's hard to tell which is up and which is down, and what's wrong and what's right – but it's always like that anyway, unless Nate tells you the difference, so she just keeps moving forward, into the dark.


	2. Like Smoke

**)()()()(**

Eliot and Nate circled for a long time.

They couldn't get close enough, and they couldn't reach Parker on the comms.

Hardison had the security feed up on the plasma, but the guards just kept sending men out in to the field and shouting at each other. Obviously they were aware of a security breach, but there was no sign of her on the footage.

What could they do? Eventually, they drove home. Parker had always been good at being invisible and now, it seemed, she had disappeared like smoke.

Nate wondered – feared – she might have made it to the road and was still waiting out there for them to pick her up.

Sophie believed Parker was hiding somewhere (or maybe leaping from tree to tree, like a monkey) and they would find her when they went back tomorrow.

Eliot thought privately that one of the men might have just shot her, out there in the woods, but he kept this opinion to himself.

Hardison didn't try to imagine where she was. He just kept scanning his equipment, all the trackers and transponders and receivers, to get a signal from her location.

But there was nothing.

Nate woke up first the next morning and wandered out into the kitchen in his boxers and robe (it was, after all, his apartment). He marveled at the heavy feeling in his chest, the hushed, expectant ache. Someone was missing. Someone was gone. It had never been this way before.

He spied what he thought must be mud in the front hall, tracked in on somebody's boots the night before. Grumbling, he fetched a broom to sweep it up before realizing it was blood, clearly printed with the marks of small bare feet.

"Oh, Christ. Eliot, Sophie, Hardison – Get in here!"

Parker was curled up asleep on his couch.

...

It's hard to keep swimming, but Parker is good at hard things.

The current is too fast for her to do a lot of steering, so at first she just hangs on, happy to let it carry her far away from the fury behind her.

She discovers that the best position is on her back, feet in front of her, like an otter. If she tips her head back, she can see the stars. She thinks she has gone several miles. There is no sound.

Every once in a while a rock or a log – or a pile of trash, or a shallow place – will come up and crash into her, but none of them hit her hard enough to let her get out of the water. Parker is in the frustrating position of wishing to be hit a little _harder_.

_Time to get out?_ thinks Parker hopefully. And the log slams into her and past her and says, _nope_.

It's weird to think that just a few hours ago, she was eating corn flakes and sitting on Nate's giant couch, watching Hardison play around on the flat-screen. She'd been nice and warm and wearing pants.

Life is funny like that. One moment you're trying to decide if you want a second bowl of cereal, and the next you're wondering if you've dislocated your shoulder.

Just when Parker is beginning to think maybe she will need to grow a fin and become a mermaid (because at this rate she is going to end up in the ocean) the river heaves itself around a corner and there it is –

A bridge.

Bridges mean roads. Roads, in Parker's experience, usually go somewhere. This is good. All she has to do is _get to the bridge_. She can do this (it would seem to involve swimming).

Maybe she picks the wrong eddy to scramble into, because she ends up getting herself slammed into the cement abutment. But maybe it is the right eddy, because at least she can grab hold of the brambles on the river bank and haul herself to the edge.

Parker takes a moment. Currently she is cold and – let's face it – a little frightened, but nothing really _hurts_. She knows that the frigid water is keeping down any swelling. Or bleeding. Or general unpleasantness. She has a strong suspicion that the pain will start when she's out of the water. So this is, like, a reprieve.

Now she kind of has an inclination to _stay_ in the water (except that she might drown, of course).

So, no good options, really.

But then the bank starts to shift under her weight and the scale tips towards drowning over bleeding to death, and Parker reflects that she'd really better get a move on. She pulls herself up with her hands and tries not to think about how unhelpful her left leg is feeling. Once she gets herself upright she pulls the recalcitrant limb underneath her properly and tells it on no uncertain terms that, _by God, she will_ _leave it behind _if it doesn't get its act together.

She begins to climb. Yup, it hurts. But this is the plan: get to the road, walk somewhere, and then get somewhere. Well, she's not the big planner okay? That's Nate's job.

This is just like that time with the vault in Frankfurt, when the door slammed shut with her inside, and she thought _I hope someone gets that_ just before remembering she always worked alone. It had taken twenty minutes to break out through an air shaft and the cops were right outside. Actually, she was pretty sure Nate had investigated that one. Had he ever realized that was her?

The point is, nobody's coming. She's on her own.

There are sharp things under her bare feet, but Parker isn't thinking about that. And her leg definitely feels weird, but she's not thinking about that either. Or about her state of undress, or the fact that her wet hair is dripping cold water down her neck. Sometimes it's good to be smart – like when Nate has to come up with a great con, or Hardison has to hack a computer code – but sometimes it's better to just _do_. Eliot would understand, or Sophie. Like when you are trying to break out of a vault and the guards are coming. Don't over-think it, just climb.

Okay, she's made it to the road. Time for Phase II of the plan – _walk somewhere._

She starts off counting to pass the time, and when that stops working, she hums tunelessly to herself (Parker isn't much for music). She lists the foster homes she stayed at. That takes a while. Then she starts diagramming security at various museums she's broken into, which takes a long time.

Eventually, she just concentrates on walking.

Although she doesn't seem to be getting anywhere fast, Parker can't help noticing that it is a beautiful night.


	3. Alice White in Wonderland

**)()()()(**

Parker is a terrible patient.

First, she doesn't want to wake up when Nate leans over her, preferring to bury her face in the pillow instead. "Go away," she mutters when he shakes her shoulder, "I'm tired."

"Parker, honey, get up. Parker." _Honey_ – that sounds funny. Ha ha, honey and funny, that rhymes. How come it isn't spelled hunny or foney? Wait, no, she's _sleeping_.

Nate is trying to pull back the afghan she is wrapped in, and she wiggles to stay underneath it, grumbling. "Leave me alone, I was up all night. Sleepy now."

The sound of feet. "Oh my God, _Parker_ – " she is swimming in flowery perfume. Sophie. At least Sophie is warm and snuggly; Sophie is okay. No more of Nate with the shaking.

Unfortunately, it appears she is not going to get her wish; here's Eliot and Hardison, squinting in the morning light, and if she sees them that means her eyes are open, and it's hard to sleep like that (not impossible, though). And Nate has managed to untuck her now, and her shirt and her hair are still damp, so she's cold. She makes a little complaining noise, wishing they could reshoot this scene in a couple of hours. Like maybe six hours. Or eight.

"Your feet look like hamburger," Eliot observes, studying them where they are propped up on the armrest.

"_Your_ feet look like hamburger," she snipes back, pulling them up under her. Oh, that hurts; from now on, she's going to keep her legs straight.

"What happened?" asks Nate, covering her up again; "Where did you go?"

"I swam," she explains, sitting up slowly. "But the water was cold, so that sucked. But then I made it to a bridge, so that was good. But there was something wrong with my leg, so that sucked. So I had to walk a long time. And I didn't have any shoes. So that sucked. But then I got a ride, so that was good." She nods wisely.

"Your leg? What's wrong with your leg?" Sophie reaches for her, but Parker squirms away.

"Nothing's wrong with it. It's better. I just told you, I didn't walk the whole way. This old couple drove me home and they were really nice. But I didn't have any money to pay them, so I felt bad. But then I realized I was wearing diamond earrings, so I gave them those." Parker frowns. "I hope they get them appraised, they're worth a fortune. I stole them in Berlin."

"I see," says Nate, but he says it in that tone of voice that means he doesn't really see.

"Did we get the file?" Parker aks. "Did we set up the meet?"

"Don't worry about that now," Nate instructs. But behind his head, Sophie nods vigorously and mouths _Yes._ That makes Parker happy. Now they would get those bad, dog-owning men back for chasing her.

"I'm going to get cleaned up," she says, getting up carefully.

"Whoa-oh, there," says Hardison nervously, "Maybe you need to go to the hospital, get checked out." He is watching her stiff-legged gait while trying not to stare at her bare legs. Silly Hardison.

"No hospital, _shower_," Parker insists. "My hair smells like snails." It is hard to walk, but she's had a lot of practice at it. Her hamburger feet try to cringe away from the hard wood floor. She keeps moving.

"Sophie, go with her," Nate orders. "And when you get out, Eliot's going to take a look at you." Parker makes a face and imagines that, behind her back, Eliot is making one, too.

Parker uses up all of Nate's hot water. She also uses the last of his man-soap, scrubbing her hair. A leaf falls out of it.

When she is done Sophie comes in with a pair of Nate's boxers and one of his button-down shirts in her hand. "Did you walk all the way home with no pants? And no bra, either." Parker nods and drops her towel, not at all embarrassed to be naked in front of Sophie. She's pretty sure Sophie is more into Nate.

A gasp. "Oh, _sweetie!_" Parker looks down. Her whole hip has blossomed into a vivid purple bruise. The skin looks tight and stretched from the swelling.

"I hit a log," she says. "And a bridge."

Sophie helps her get dressed in Nate's clothes (Parker is happy to be wearing his clothes intead of Sophie's, since they are usually more comfortable), talking the whole time in a gentle voice, as if Parker is a small woodland creature.

"It's alright, sweetheart, we're going to get you back to the couch, okay? Come on, here we go, you're going to be just fine." Parker blinks. She knows this. Why is Sophie always so weird?

She is ushered her back to the living room where Sophie helps her sit down, as if Parker is not perfectly capable of seating herself. Eliot comes to sit in front of her on the couch, and Sophie takes a seat behind her to brush her tangled hair with a wide-tooth comb. Parker has been flanked.

When Eliot lifts her nasty feet one at a time, she wiggles them out of his big hands, scowling. She does not want to be checked out; she wants to get up and go home.

A _terrible_ patient.

So Hardison crouches on the floor next to her and, without making a big deal of it, takes her hand in his. "Easy, girl."

"I'm _fine_," she insists. Nate is watching from the corner, his face tight, and Parker sticks her tongue out at him. This is his fault.

Eliot has caught her feet again. "Does this hurt?" he asks, bending her ankle slowly back and forth. Parker shakes her head no. He moves on to her knee, watching her face as he manipulates the joint. Parker grits her teeth and looks away. Hardison squeezes her hand, very gently.

"This side?" Eliot asks. He lifts her left leg and presses down on her hip, feeling the bone. "Am I hurting you?"

_Yes_. "No."

"I don't think there's a fracture," he mutters. "Feels like a hip pointer - you get them from a football tackle."

"That's what it felt like," Parker agrees.

"Ice it to keep down the swellling, and keep off it for a few days. You'll be fine." He moves on to her wrists, her elbow, her shoulder. "Anything else?"

Wordlessly Parker holds up her right hand, where the little finger sticks out at a weird angle. Eliot stares at her. "That's dislocated," he says. "What is _wrong with you?_"

"It must have happened when I got out of the river," says Parker. "I didn't notice it until I was in the shower. But it's not like it's an _important_ finger, right? It's not like an _index _finger."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I can put it back, but it's going to hurt," he warns.

"It already hurts," says Parker blankly.

Sophie runs to get her some pills, and Parker reclaims her other hand from Hardison so she can take them. When Eliot wraps his catchers' mitt palms around her innocent little pinky, she threads her fingers back into Hardison's. Then she watches intently as Eliot pops the joint back with an audible _snap_. Her expression never changes.

"Okay?"

The finger seems to be working again. "You know," says Parker, "I feel just like that scene in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy's getting made over. And you're the lion," she points at Eliot, "and Nate's the wizard. And you're the scarecrow" - Hardison. "And Sophie's the Good Witch. But it was a munchkin doing Dorothy's hair." She drops her head back to look at Sophie. "You're not even short," she points out.

Eliot shakes his head, but Hardison plays along. "Well, what about the Tin Man?"

"I dunno, maybe he fell down the rabbit hole. Or was that me?"

"You're mixing your metaphors, girl, that's Alice in Wonderland."

"Alice White in Wonderland," Parker snickers. "Alice White and the Seven Dwarfs."

"Oh man," says Eliot to Sophie, "how many of those pills did you give her?"

"It was Tylenol," says Sophie, mystified.

"I don't do drugs," Parker affirms. "I'm high on life."


	4. Teaching a Stay Dog Tricks

**)()()()(**

They took turns babysitting Parker, who had trouble getting up off the couch now that her leg had stiffened.

When it was his turn, Nate was awkward around her, asking several times if she wanted additional blankets or pills or sandwiches, and seeming generally ill-at-ease. Although it was his apartment that Parker was staying in, he was inexplicably out of place. Parker didn't really want any blankets, pills, or sandwiches, but eventually she agreed to all of them just to make him feel better. He was obviously relieved as he hurried off to get them for her.

When Sophie came, she liked to sit and talk, which was problematic since Parker wasn't very good at that. The best strategy was to get Sophie going and then sit quietly and listen to her stories about Paris and London and Hermès and Chanel. Some of those places Parker had never even heard of, but it was fun to pretend.

Eliot mostly ignored her, preferring to put the game on the big screen and sit in silence. Parker didn't know what teams were playing but at least she didn't have to entertain him. And, he would usually bring beer.

Her favorite was Hardison, who never came by without bringing something fun for her to do – Wii Bowling one time, Guitar Hero, and Second Life (in it, Parker was still a jewel thief, which he said kind of defied the point). Today it was Sim City, and as usual he snuggled up next to her on the couch ("because they both had to be able to reach the console"). But after an hour or two he would usually decide that he was really tired, and sometimes Parker was feeling kind of tired by this time too, so she would lean back against the couch and close her eyes.

When she was half asleep she felt him wrap an arm around her middle. Maybe she was imagining the feeling of his hand brushing her cheek, and gently tucking her hair behind her ear.

After a few days she was very well able to limp around and was getting pretty sick of being cooped up. Nate had already caught her hanging from the railing of his spiral staircase, contemplating a flip. "I'm _fine_," she sulked when he made her get down. "Tell me about the job, what's going on? Can I help?"

"We don't need any help, there's nothing left to do. Sophie does the drop tomorrow and that's the end of it. So take a nap or something, okay?"

"I don't know why everybody's acting so _weird_," she complained to Hardison, stomping past him into the kitchen. She was going to eat peanut butter _straight out of the jar_, just to spite Nate, because she knew it annoyed him.

"That's `cuz you scared the hell outta everyone," answered Hardison promptly. "We didn't know where you were."

"I was fine," Parker muttered through a mouthful of peanut butter. Mmm, creamy. "I'm always fine." She scowled.

"Don't pout," Hardison wheedled. "I'll teach you how to make prank calls, you want to learn how to make prank calls? C'mon, I'll show you."

Teaching Parker stuff was something of a hobby around the Leverage headquarters; Sophie taught her girlie things, like shopping and makeup; Eliot taught her how to fight. Hardison taught her small talk and card tricks, and Nate taught her self-control - or tried to, anyway. It was a fun pastime, like teaching a stray dog to do tricks.

The only problem was that Parker wasn't entirely tame. If you try to teach a wild animal to sit on command, it may listen to you with some degree of interest. Or it may decide to maul you.

"_Is your refrigerator running_?" giggled Parker into the phone, while Hardison blocked the number's caller ID.

Grinning, he gave her a big thumbs-up.

...

The first sign of trouble came the following day. While Sophie made the drop to close out their con on the warehouse people, Eliot was supposed to have the baby-sitting shift.

But Eliot didn't come.

This wasn't particularly surprising to Parker – after all, it seemed like Eliot had never really warmed up to her. In fact it was possible that he found her extremely annoying (that happened, sometimes). She just figured he had gotten sick of playing nursemaid and left her to her own devices.

So what? She'd watch a movie, maybe make herself a sandwich. No problem.

Making her way slowly to the bathroom, she tried to convince herself it didn't matter. So what if she tripped on tile and cracked her head open – she could hear his voice in her head; _someone who can't keep their feet underneath them deserves what they get_.

Well, maybe that wasn't _Eliot's_ voice, exactly. But he definitely wasn't the kind of sympathetic presence who would worry about something like that.

She kept herself occupied by breaking into Hardison's room and stealing only one sock from all his pairs. She was planning on hiding them all over the house. This was fun.

But when Sophie showed up at noon, she seemed unexpectedly concerned. "You mean he just didn't come?"

Parker shook her head no. "Did you make the drop?" she asked. "Were there dogs?"

Sophie frowned. "They didn't show," she admitted. "Nate is trying to track them down, see what went wrong. Maybe they duplicated the file or something." She was lost in thought for a moment. "Eliot didn't call or anything?"

"Nope."

At that moment Nate burst through the door. His hair was standing rumpled on the top of his head, which was a sure sign of agitation.

"Guys, we've got a big problem . . ."


	5. Act of War

**)()()()(**

There was one rule in a team of thieves: never steal from each other.

Until now, Parker had always managed to observe this rule, even when they succeeded in lifting a _lot_ cash, or when Sophie was wearing something particularly sparkly.

The only problem was, Nate's plan to retrieve Eliot involved a lot of razzle-dazzle and not a lot of rescuing, and Parker's plan ("go in there and steal Eliot") required information that was currently stored in Nate's safe.

Parker wasn't sure, but she was guessing that breaking into Nate's room and picking his safe could be construed as an act of war.

Nate had a cute little UFB2720 – the new model, very nice – which Parker estimated she could crack in approximately 28 seconds (she beat her own guess). Inside was a cardboard tube of papers, about $60,000 in cash, and a handgun.

She withdrew the blueprints of the condo development, studying Nate's notes with an experienced eye. The rooms colored in yellow highlighter were the ones where he thought Eliot might be kept – red was potential entrypoints, blue was for trouble spots. This was useful.

Just as she was about to close the door, Parker paused to look thoughtfully at the revolver. She didn't usually carry a weapon (maybe the occasional tazer) but she couldn't help thinking that it might be a useful thing to have. Maybe she could just – brandish it? She didn't need to actually _shoot_ someone. It probably wasn't even loaded.

Somewhat tentatively, she drew out the magazine and checked the chamber. Okay, so it was loaded.

After a moment's indecision, she slid the safety on and tucked the gun into her waistband.

Then, to fully severe any ties she still held with Leverage, Inc., she left the door of the defiled safe hanging open.

Now she could never come back.

...

"Okay, I'm thinking," said Nate, starting to pace. "So obviously we don't have much to go on here. _They_ know what _we_ know about what _they_ know . . ."

"Nate, think more quickly," ordered Sophie. "They've got _Eliot_."

At Eliot's apartment, they found a bag of organic vegetables spilled outside the door, as though they had been unexpectedly dropped. It was Hardison that found the dart, half-way hidden under the rug. _Tranquilizer gun_, said Nate, shaking his head. _Used to sedate animals from a distance_.

Parker swallowed. Animals like _dogs_.

_Oh man_, said Hardison – _Eliot was at the back door at the warehouse the other day, they must have gotten an image from the camera there. They could have used it to track him down_ . . .

"Nate!"

"You know what, Sophie? Not. Helping. Okay, okay, okay, what do we know that they don't know? Let's see . . . they won't take Eliot to the warehouse, because we've already proven we can get in there," he speculated, rubbing his temples. "But they've got to take him somewhere, somewhere they feel safe, someplace they don't know we know about. Hardison – "

"Pull up a list of properties, I'm on it," the hacker finished his thought. "Okay, here's a list of what they own through shell companies, and here's private holdings through top individuals and their immediate family members. Anything under the CEO is in yellow, that's Aaron Davids."

"Two first names," murmured Sophie anxiously, "that's a bad sign."

Parker nodded. Everybody knew that rule.

Nate ignored them, intently scanning Hardison's list. "Okay, there," he said abruptly, "this one, is this residential?"

With a few keystrokes Hardison pulled up the aerial photos of the location. "It's a condo development," he reported, "apparently unfinished. Davids purchased it under his wife's name two years ago but production halted when the economy hit the skids."

"That's where they'd go," said Nate, talking half to himself. "It's remote and unoccupied and it's not on the company's roles. What we need is an inside man, someone they haven't seen yet – Hardison, you're going in on this one. You're going to be . . . a city inspector, renewing their building permits, and once you're in we'll set up the Double-Under with the Swedish twist. Or, maybe the Quarterback Snap. Then we'll flip the file in return for Eliot. Yeah, that could work. We'll have to play it by ear."

"Question," Parker raised her hand. "Why can't we just break in and bust him out?"

"Too risky," said Nate, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "We don't know what we're up against in there."

"But . . .we've got the blueprints and the satellite photos, what else do we need?"

"How about guard rotations, security measures – we don't even know the psychology here, the key players. Originally we were dealing with a public organization, but this is different, this is a small fringe group of principle actors, and we don't even know which ones."

"But – "

Nate put one hand on Parker's shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "This is a good plan," he said, "this is going to work. We'll have Eliot back in no time, plus we'll finish our original job." He dropped his hand. "What we need is a uniform and an ID for Hardison – Let's move quickly on this, people, we don't have a lot of time for set-up. Sophie, you'll be the lancer and Parker, you're on cleanup."

In this plan, Parker was definitely the pinkie finger.

"But I can _help._"

"Parker," said Nate, too patiently; "you've only just recovered from the _last_ time you went into the field. You can't go back again already."

"You don't know what I can do," said Parker. But too quietly for him to hear.

It was a good plan. There were only a couple problems from Parker's perspective. The most glaring one was that the plan left Eliot with the dog-people for at least 48 hours.

She watched wordlessly as Nate brooded over his print-outs of the building plans, scribbling his notes on the margin. Sophie was plotting with Hardison on the sofa, reminding him "not to oversell it" this time.

Very quietly, Parker edged away from the team.


	6. Like a Madwoman

**)()()()(**

You would think that the best time to break into a building – an unfinished condo development, for example – would be after dark. But you would be wrong. People are fearful and suspicious at night, and there is such a thing as security lighting, you know. Since Nate identified the East side of the building as the preferred point of access, Parker has selected the best time as 4:30 pm, when the shadows are deepest.

Now she is leaning against the brick building. Nobody has seen her yet. It is very quiet.

For a moment she wavers, then simply reaches for the windowsill of the first story and pulls herself up, free climbing up the vertical face. With nothing in her hands she makes quick progress up - no ropes, no tools, just her clever feet finding small places in the brick, and her strong fingers searching out the hand-holds and gripping on. It hurts a little because one of her fingers is still healing, but Parker decides it is classier to climb this way, with her pinkie sticking out.

At the third story she spares a moment to glance down between her feet at the cement sidewalk far below. Probably not high enough to kill her, if she fell (you have to be surprisingly high for that to work). But it's actually the fourth floor that's her entry point, so she climbs, nimble and fearless, following Nate's blue-marked suggestions as though he is directing her through the comms.

_Be careful at the third-floor corridor, Parker, there are clear sightlines out the window. And mind the security cameras on the Southeast corner. Can you see the window? You'll have to force it, it leads to the fourth-floor bathroom; nicely done. Now be very quiet, they could be right below you – they could be anywhere – don't make a sound. _

I _know_, Nate, be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate.

Parker creeps down the hallway as though she's stepping on fog, running through the blueprints in her mind: there is a private gym on this floor, unfinished of course, which Nate flagged as a likely spot to keep a prisoner because the walls are thick and the door has a good lock. Down two doors on the right – not that one – there!

Cautiously, Parker holds her breath as she leans against the door and listens. There is no way to know which parts of the security system are operational, so she has to assume it is all working, including, unfortunately, they key-card lock on the door of the workout room. For which she has no key card.

She can't hear anything inside, so after a moment's hesitation she extracts her kit from her tool belt. There are a number of options for a lock like this; she could hack it with a computer, like Hardison would do, using a duplicate-key card device. She could disconnect the lock from the door with little more than a screwdriver, which would be Nate's preferred option. But fortunately Parker isn't working with a team any more, so she gets to use her favorite approach: stuffing the lock with just a _little_ plastic explosive, which she then detonates with a teeny-tiny blasting cap. It makes such a great fizz of smoke and the most satisfying _crack_ as it blows the lock . . .

Parker starts the stopwatch in her head.

She pushes open the door . . . five, six, seven . . . prepared to meet anything on the other side: armed men, vicious dogs, even an empty room (this, she understands, is the reason Nate would not break into the condo development this way. But it's kind of _fun_, too, right?).

Instead she finds Eliot, slumped on the floor beside a weight rack. Nate is a _genius_.

Fourteen seconds, fifteen, sixteen . . .

He appears to be unconscious; his face is bruised and his bottom lip is crusted over with dried blood. She hurries to his side and shakes him roughly, keeping an eye on the door. This has been too easy. They wouldn't leave him alone, unrestrained, for long. They will be back any minute. Twenty-two, twenty-three . . .

"Eliot! Get _up_!"

Very slowly, he shakes his head; then his eyes open to stare at her blankly. "Parker?"

"C'mon, hurry." She grabs his arm, tries to tug him. Her heart is hammering against her chest. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . . "_Now, _Eliot!"

"Parker, you shouldn't be here," says Eliot thickly. "They'll kill you, you gotta get out of here."

"That's what I'm trying to _do_," explains Parker desperately, "Come _on."_ She hauls him to his feet and slings his arm around her shoulders, staggering under his weight. It had not occurred to her that Eliot might not be able to walk out with her. She should have brought a rollie-chair. "We've still got to figure a way out of here." Thirty nine. Forty.

"You're insane," says Eliot, his voice hoarse. "You don't know . . . how we're getting out? What the hell does - Nate say?"

Okay, so Eliot is still mean to her. That's okay. Parker puts her hand to her ear. "Nate? What's the plan?" If Eliot were able to see clearly, he might notice that she isn't actually wearing a comm.

There is a pause as Parker listens to the buzzing in her head. "Okay," she whispers. "Got it." She turns to Eliot. Fifty-two, fifty-three. "We've got to go out the back," she tells him, "are you up for it?"

Eliot stretches slowly and painfully, and starts to cough. "Sure."

"C'mon, hurry." She tries to tow him towards the door. "Ok, guys, we're going out the ground floor," Parker announces. "I've got Eliot with me, he seems like he's okay."

Great, now she is _lying_ to the imaginary people.

"Parker – " he says, dazedly – "Parker, I've got to tell you something."

_Come on_, _come on_, she chants, while he works to keep his feet under him. "So tell me," she says, playing for time as she struggles to open the door without dropping him. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight.

"I can't remember what," he whispers.

"S'okay," says Parker, "that's cool, tell me later – hey, how about we just get out of here, okay?"

Eliot leans on her heavily, and Parker is afraid she will be crushed under his weight. It's hard to keep moving but they hobble down the hallway to the back staircase, where Parker braces them against the railing and mostly lets gravity carry them down. This is not the good kind of adrenaline, the kind that comes with jumping off a building; that's _fun, _while this is the worst feeling in the world: any second now someone is going to come, men with guns and dogs, and she will get Eliot (not to mention herself) killed.

Eliot is coughing and trying to keep upright, cursing vicious swear words (some of which she has never even _heard_ of) under his breath. After a while she can't tell if he has switched into another language of if he's just slurring nonsense. It doesn't matter – she has pushed through the exterior doors and set off all the alarms, so there are lights flashing and a siren droning and, God knows, a thousand computer alerts being simultaneously tripped. It doesn't matter – stealth was the key to getting in, but getting out is pure hatchetry.

She can see her stolen car, waiting in the parking lot – she knows that the door is unlocked, the keys are in the ignition, that it is a straight shot out through the security gates and onto the open road -

"Hey, you there – stop!"

They're _so close!_

Next to her Eliot gives a bubbling groan of disappointment, and Parker turns without thinking and in the next second is firing Nate's gun, right into the man's chest, which blossoms into a spreading red stain. He falls back with a horrible sucking sound and she doesn't even know who he was – maybe one of the men who hurt Eliot, but maybe somebody else, somebody who doesn't even like dogs. Parker has never hurt anyone before.

There are still people coming behind him so she keeps firing at the entrance, her aim level, until the gun clicks, empty. Then Parker turns and drags Eliot to the car and stuffs him into the front seat, climbing over his lap in to the driver's side. Although she can't remember starting the car or hitting the gas – had Eliot pulled the passenger side door closed? - the next minute they are hurtling across the parking lot and the windows are shattering, somebody is shooting, but Parker only thinks _drive drive drive _and in the next instant they're crashing through the gates (poorly reinforced, she notes) and thundering down the main road, with Parker hooting like a madwoman and Eliot slumped unconscious in the front seat.


	7. The Speed of Light

_A/N: Some people portray Parker as basically normal with just a few quirks, but I tend to see her as a little more – ah – clinical . . . _

**)()()()(**

Parker drove until the fuel light came on, then left the keys in the ignition and stole another car from a parking lot, muscling Eliot from one seat to the other. She drove without a plan, picking exits at random. It was getting late by the time she ditched the second car for a diesel truck, which she drove to a Super 8 Motel following the signs on the highway.

The desk clerk had to ask her to slow down – apparently she was talking too fast, or just not making any sense. Finally she got a room and paid for it with the clerk's own stolen cash (she'd lifted it within the first few minutes of entering the lobby).

Things were taking on a dream-like quality, like when she'd first learned to steal and realized she'd never have to want anything again. For three years she'd taken everything she could get her hands on, not even keeping track of what she'd stolen, taking things just to help her steal something else – wallets, fancy jewelry, credit cards, cash. The world had been suddenly open to her: nothing had been out of reach.

She'd hurt people, she realized that now, even regretted it, distantly, but how could it really matter – how could it make a difference, when she was the only living thing on the face of the earth? Everybody else was a shadow moving in slow-motion; only Parker was alive, dreaming, feeling, _wanting_, moving at the speed of light. Crazy? Oh yeah, she'd been crazy in those days, maybe she always had been and still was. She'd only stopped when she wanted to take on bigger challenges – true heists, which took a lot of planning. Petty theft was the act of an instant, natural as breathing, but robbing a bank had the necessity of research, of forethought, the need for _stillness_ that burned the fever from her veins.

She dragged Eliot into the room and left him sprawled over the bed, hurrying back into the night. She was fairly certain the bad guys couldn't track them (after all, she wasn't sure where they were, herself) but she still had one thing left to do.

It took her a while to find a stretch of road out in the country with a high enough bridge.

She parked the truck and leaned out over the guard rail in the blinking of the hazard lights. It looked a lot like the place where she'd come out of the water herself – was it only a week ago? She even checked the banks for trampled bushes, just in case. There was no sign of any disturbance (that was good: returning to the scene of the crime was a total amateur move). The water slipped away silently beneath her, visible only as a glinting sliver ribbon in the flicking light of her headlamps.

It was hard to believe she couldn't ever go back to Nate's apartment and make herself some cereal. Everything had changed – or, maybe it had just gone back to the way things had always been. She was alone in the world, no future, no ties. And now she was a killer.

Parker leaned out far over the railing. She had Nate's gun in her hand, and she stretched her arm as far as it could reach - then opened her fingers and let the gun drop down into the black water. Maybe it sank into a deep pool, or maybe it was carried hundreds of miles downstream. Either way, they would never trace it back to her, or Nate.

Parker wasn't someone to dwell on the past. If she thought too much about all the terrible things that happened, she would - well, she wouldn't have any fun. Forget that.

All she had to do was drop Eliot off someplace close to Boston, and then she could get out of here. She was thinking of returning to Thailand, where she had once lived for almost a year. That was the longest she had stayed in one place since she was seven years old – except for the time she had been with the Leverage team, of course. And it was a short hop to Kuala Lumpur, which had a thriving financial district . . .

She had evaded Hardison for six months in Sierra Leone, but it didn't seem like a good idea to go back there any time soon.

She retraced her steps to the motel, then drove the truck off the road into some bushes where nobody would find it anytime soon. When she climbed out it was perfectly silent outside, and the absence of a moon made the night dark as pitch.

She loped easily back down the road and across the parking lot, back to the room where she found Eliot unmoving, exactly where she'd left him.

She approached him cautiously (he _really hated it_ when she took him by surprise). He was still stretched across the bed on his stomach, which didn't really look very comfortable. "Eliot, wake up," she demanded.

No answer.

"Hey, I'm _talking_ to you."

Now that the adrenaline of her adventure had passed Parker was drained and cold and, maybe, a little freaked out that Eliot hadn't yelled at her yet.

She worked to roll him over onto his back - of course, Eliot had to be the biggest, heaviest man on the face of the planet. Parker consoled herself, as she wrestled him over, that it could have been worse - he could have been a yeti, like Hardison claimed to have seen once in Portland (this was pretty close, though).

She couldn't see any obvious injuries that were, like, gushing blood or anything. The only thing she noticed, where his shirt rode up, was angry black bruises on his stomach. At least one of them looked like the mark of a boot.

She tucked him under the spare blanket - he felt hot, or maybe her hands were just cold? Parker didn't know. She looked hard into his slack, gentle face. This was _Eliot_ she was talking about - he was built like a rhino! He would be fine by tomorrow, and then she could start financing her trip to Phuket.

There was only one bed but Parker didn't worry about that. She snuggled up to Eliot's broad back and closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep fast. Eliot was like a giant teddy bear, a giant _heated_ teddy bear. Which sounded like a real bear, come to think of it. Maybe Eliot was at least a little less likely to eat her.

Somewhat comforted, she closed her eyes and tried to go straight to sleep, listening to the unfamiliar sound of someone breathing next to her.

--


	8. Queen of Diamonds

**)()()()(**

Parker was jolted awake from a nightmare that involved her gunning down the crew of Leverage, one by one. She had just been about to get to Eliot . . .

Eliot!

She rolled onto her belly to peer at him, feeling her chest still pounding against the mattress (_not real, not real, not real_).

Next to her, the hitter shifted uncomfortably and groaned.

_Real?_

She had been hoping for some major signs of improvement, but if anything, he kinda seemed worse. Yesterday when she'd poked him, he'd moaned and rolled over, but today when she pulled his hair, he ignored her. Also, he seemed . . . cooler? That was bad, wasn't it - in Parker's experience, people got cooler when they _died_.

She buried her head in the pillow.

She didn't know what to do. She wasn't any good at situations like this. After a lifetime of ignoring her own injuries, she didn't know the first thing about treating other people's – no doubt, anything she tried to do would only make him worse.

It was obvious to Parker that she needed _smart people_ to help Eliot, people who knew what baby doctors were called, along with other helpful medical knowledge. Should she take him to a hospital?

But . . . Parker didn't trust authority figures. They usually wanted to arrest her.

She sighed.

None of this was part of the plan. In Parker's version of the plan, she was halfway to Thailand by now, trying to forget that she had ever heard of Leverage, Inc. Which reminded her, she was going to need to come up with a lot of cash, preferable from some source Hardison couldn't track.

She rolled out from under the covers and reached for her jacket, which she had left slung over a chair. She threw it on over the clothes she had been wearing for the past three days.

"Eliot? I'm going to go out for a minute, okay? I'll be really quick, you won't even have time to miss me!" She ducked into the bathroom long enough to swish some mouthwash and run a quick hand through her disordered hair. "So stay here and wait for me. Okay?"

No answer. That meant yes.

...

Parker followed the road signs in search of good hunting grounds, which took her across the state line to the Mohegan casino. Casinos were good places to pick pockets - used to be even better when things were more cash-oriented, but Parker was happy to steal credit cards, too.

She moved slowly through the main floor, where the air was filled with the jingling noise of slot machines and the excited cries of the occasional winner. The sound of so much money in the air made Parker itchy. She didn't want to put tokens in a slot, she wanted to locate the main safe and examine the schematics. _Focus, Parker_, she reminded herself, her internal voice sounding suspiciously like Nate. She wasn't here to pull a big heist. She was here to lift petty cash to finance a plane ticket to Phuket.

She knew there was video surveillance everywhere, but that didn't really bother her. She could pick a pocket right in front of the camera and you _still_ couldn't see her doing it (Hardison had tested).

She stood for a long time watching the blackjack table - and stealing from the spectators while she was at it. There seemed to be a lot of cash flowing and Parker lifted it all, stuffing the whole wad in the breast pocket of her coat. She knew she should keep moving, but the sight of the cards being overturned was fascinating. Most casinos used lame light-up icons these days, but the dealers here used a real deck.

Ace, black 7, black 2, stand. Parker couldn't stop staring, although she did take a break long enough to pick up a drivers license from a blond lady leaning over a player's shoulder (from a distance, maybe they could pass).

Red 5, red 6, hit. The player, a stout man with yellow teeth, won with a Queen of Spades.

"Do you want to play?"

Parker looked up, startled, to find him lighting a cigar while he looked her over. She prevented herself from touching the stash wad in her pocket (an amateur move). Instead, she smiled back, hoping the effect was less creepy than her usual smile.

"I don't know the rules," she lied.

"It's easy, you're just trying to come closer than dealer 21, without going over. Here – " he nodded at his hand, "you just tell me to hit or to rest, okay?"

He was holding a black seven. "Okay," said Parker, "Hit."

Three of Hearts.

"Hit," said Parker.

The Queen of Diamonds. Parker smiled. "Hit."

"Are you sure?" said the cigar man. "Face cards are ten, you're at twenty now."

Parker didn't even look at the dealer's hand. "Hit," she said. Always hit, always push for more, or what's the point of playing?

Ace of hearts. "Twenty-one," said the dealer.

"You're crazy," said the cigar man, but he said it with a smile. "Here, take your share of the loot." He threw her two chips, purple and black - $600. Parker caught them in one hand and sniffed them quickly.

"Thanks," she said, deciding not to lift his wallet. Instead she turned and melted into the crowd, rubbing her two chips together in her hand.

Rather than taking them to the cashier, Parker wandered back to the parking lot with close to $10,000 in stolen cash and the two uncashed chips. She drove back to the motel hoping that maybe Eliot had gotten up to take a shower while she'd been gone, or maybe he wouldn't even be there, maybe he'd called a cab and headed back to Boston without even waiting to say goodbye – it sounded something he would do.

"Eliot?" She pushed open the door with her foot. "Are you still here? We can buy food . . . I want fortune cookies. Eliot?"

He seemed to have slipped out of the bed and was half-sprawled against the mattress, as if he had been trying to get up and ran out of energy. "Eliot?"

She crawled up next to where he was sitting, peering into his face. His skin looked – pearly? – and his jaw was clenched, eyes shut tight. He was breathing shallowly. "Eliot, it's time to get up. Okay?" For emphasis, she socked him on the arm, hard. "Eliot?"

She sat back and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket, which still contained the two poker chips. What should she do? Staring at his face, she began passing them between one hand and the other, feeling the plastic heat up in her palms. _Pros and cons_, thought Parker. In one hand, always push, hit on every turn, Queen of Diamonds – and in the other hand, plan ahead, play carefully, Ace of Hearts. How did people ever make a decision?

Her thoughts were disrupted when Eliot shuddered and groaned, sounding like the wooden timbers of an old ship. She chewed on her lip and reached to tentatively pet his pretty hair. Except it was stringy with sweat. "Eliot, please," she whispered. "Please be alright."

His hands flexed, briefly.

"What do you _need_?" she asked desperately, shaking his shoulder. "Eliot! What's _wrong_ with you?"

Slowly, his eyes opened, fixing dazedly on her face. "Parker?" he whispered, making a question out of it.

"Eliot, are you hot? Or cold? Does anything hurt?" Unconsciously she had grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting it in her fingers.

Gently, Eliot lifted his big hand up to her arm, her shoulder, and patted her back. She could feel the muscles trembling. He licked his lips. "Don' cry," he whispered.

"I'm not crying, you jerk," Parker insisted, but she didn't check to see if it was true.

"Where's – the team?" he asked, his voice rough. "Where's . . . "

She watched the consciousness slide slowly from his face. "Eliot? Eliot!"

Hopelessly, she huddled against his warm chest, feeling his arm slip down her back, leaving her alone.

...

Parker made the call from a pay phone, leaving her stolen car running in the street. Eliot was slumped in the front seat (Parker had put a hat on him so maybe be looked asleep? Or maybe he just looked even more like a corpse).

Knowing Hardison would track the call, she waited for his familiar, cautious _hullo?_ and poured forth in a long breath, before he could answer; "You've got to pick up Eliot, he isn't getting better – bring a car to the corner of Washington and Eleventh Street in two hours – he'll be there – " and hung up, her heart pounding.

Then she dashed back to the sedan and peeled away from the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the city.

Rules of blackjack (delete spaces): **www. blackjackinfo . com/blackjack-rules . php  
**


	9. Someone Else’s Problem

**)()()()(**

Parker settled Eliot in the backseat of her stolen Impala – he was too long to fit properly, so she left his feet hanging out of the open door. Then she left the car idling on the ground floor of a garage on the corner of Washington and Eleventh.

She took a deep breath. Now the team would come get Eliot and he would be okay.

She had enough money for a plane ticket and the stolen ID that would get her a seat. This was probably the perfect time to hit the road.

But - what if something happened and they didn't come? Eliot would be left unconscious in the back seat of a running car . . . she couldn't leave until she knew for _sure. _

She closed her eyes. _One last thing_, and then she could disappear for good. Once she was certain, she could go.

Having made up her mind, it was easy to climb up a level and huddle behind a cement pillar to watch - a guard rail blocked her from being seen from below, but she had a good view of the parking lot. For a long time nobody came, and her stomach twisted in anxiety. Were they so mad at her that they wouldn't show? But surely they wouldn't punish _Eliot_ for _her_ betrayal . . . they were supposed to be the good guys, after all!

Finally, _finally_ she watched a familiar black sedan drive slowly across the lot towards the Impala. That was the team. Now she could take off.

"You are a lot of trouble, you know that," asked Hardison, his arm closing tight around her shoulders. "It's like a full-time job, just keeping track of you."

Parker bit and kicked, scratching with her fingernails, but he just tucked her under one arm and pinned her against his chest. "Hey now, settle, girl, settle," he warned, but Parker fought like a wildcat, trying to twist free. She couldn't let him take her back. She was considering a swift kick to the `nads (ironically Eliot had taught her that trick) when Hardison managed to catch her wrists in one hand and turn her around. "Girl, you better calm down," he muttered in her ear.

She didn't want to go with him – she _couldn't_ go – but Hardison was determined, towing her firmly in the direction of the cars, shushing her as she struggled in his grasp. Nate would kill her – in some really clever way – they would never find her body – he would _kill her_, But Hardison kept them moving, still talking softly; "S'alright, Baby, don't you worry now."

Nate and Sophie were already out of the car and inspecting the damage. "You get Parker?" called Nate.

Hardison tightened his arms around her. "Yup."

"Good. Help get Eliot into the car." After a moment's pause, Hardison gave her a reassuring squeeze and let her go, heading off towards Sophie - from across the room Parker could hear her soft cries of dismay and his sharp inhalation of breath. Left alone with Nate she stood in silence and waited for him to speak. Why beg for forgiveness she knew she didn't deserve? She was a thief and now a killer and now she was going to, what, ask for their help?

Nate pulled her into a gruff hug, his cheek brushing quickly over her hair before he gripped her shoulders and pushed her away again. Parker couldn't remember him ever hugging her before. His hands were clamped like vices on her arms. "Don't do anything ever do that again," he warned. "You have a problem with the way I'm running a con, you come to me."

Parker felt her eyes filling up with tears, and she angrily blinked them away.

"You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good girl. Let's go, we've got to take Eliot back. We'll take him to Sophie's place – it's closer."

She watched as Sophie and Hardison, between them, hoisted Eliot out of her car and into theirs. _Lift with your backs,_ she thought.

"Let's go," said Nate.

Parker sat stoic and expressionless between Hardison and Sophie, crammed in uncomfortably to leave room for Eliot in the front seat. ("Of course, we're furious," Sophie had warned, squeezing her into a tight, fierce hug. Now she alternated between patting her - her arm, her shoulder, her hair - and swearing she would kick her ass. Parker was beginning to think she didn't mean it, though).

"Are you alright?" asked Nate, from the driver's seat.

Parker nodded yes. "All the bullets missed us," she explained helpfully. In the rear-view mirror, she saw Nate slap his forehead with one hand.

...

Parker couldn't remember being part of a family so she didn't understand forgiveness. If you did something bad, you had to go, that was all - out into the street, you became someone else's problem. If you couldn't play nice, if you couldn't behave, then you didn't deserve a nice warm home and lots of food. And if you betrayed somebody they would hate you, not hug you and ask if you were okay. It didn't make any sense.

"OK, gently, guys, let's get him inside," said Nate, opening the passenger-side door. "Parker – help."

Numbly she slipped Eliot's arm over her shoulder and, in a practiced move, began maneuvering him to the door. But this time Hardison took the other side and hoisted his weight off of her, and Sophie hurried to open the door and hold it for them, pressing the button for the elevator. Nate made a quick call from his cellphone. "A buddy of mine is an internist," he explained as he hung up, catching Parker's questioning eye. She nodded and said nothing, huddling under Eliot's arm. "Hey," said Nate, "he's going to be fine, okay? He'll be fine."

Parker sniffed and ducked her head. "He kept getting worse," she explained in a small voice.

Nate was saved from having to reply when the elevator dinged, letting them off at Sophie's apartment. Unlike Nate's place, it was warm and homey, with yellow curtains fluttering over the sink.

"Over here," said Sophie, "bring him into the guest room." Parker (who slept in a sleeping bag on a mattress on the floor) was impressed by the beautiful wood furniture, all ornately carved and delicate. She wondered what museum Sophie had stolen it from. "Put him down on the bed." The four-poster creaked dismally under his weight.

When Nate's Doctor friend showed up, he looked more like a gangly teenager than a medical expert. And he didn't seem overly concerned about Eliot, either. "Sounds like a laceration to the spleen," he speculated. "He's been bleeding from some blunt-force trauma - but it can't have been too bad, or he wouldn't have lasted two days." Like Nate, Doctor Friend seemed a little light on the emotions. "I've started him on an IV for fluids and antibiotics, and we'll see how he does."

Parker poked him. "He doesn't look any better yet."

Nate caught her hand. "Yeah, um, that's going to take a little more time, Parker."

Hardison finally lured her away by making omelets (with ketchup!) in Sophie's tiny, underutilized kitchen ("Where did you find _eggs_?" asked Sophie. "Or a _pan_?").

Parker dug in and realized she was starving, barely managing to ask questions between forkfuls of food. "What about the men from the warehouse?" she wanted to know. "Have you heard anything more from them?"

"It's weird," said Sophie. "Nate set up a meeting after you left, but they didn't show. And now we can't even get in touch with Davids, the CEO."

"Oh yeah?"

"He's gone off the map," said Nate, frowning. "I'm getting the runaround from his second in command. To be honest it seems like the whole organization is in shambles, some kind of leadership crisis. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you Parker?"

Parker took a thoughtful bite of eggs. _A man falling backwards, his chest a blossoming red stain. _"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.


	10. Epilogue

**)()()()(**

Eliot woke up two days later, grumpy as a bear. He didn't seem to remember much about his time at the condo or anything that came after. By prior agreement, the team glossed over the details of his rescue and Parker's role in it – which, since she was trying to forget her various missteps, she was happy to do.

Nate never asked about the missing gun, and Parker hadn't offered any information, either.

Sometimes, she thought she caught Eliot frowning at her thoughtfully, but she chose to believe she had said something weird (and sometimes she had). Once, he asked her if she had fully recovered from her injuries in the river; she nodded wordlessly and offered a big, fake smile. He grunted in acknowledgement and limped slowly away.

He healed slowly despite his organic vegetables; Parker thought he should try marshmallow cereal (it worked for her).

Then one evening after a planning session for their latest con, Parker was heading out of the conference room when Eliot blocked her with an arm across the hallway. Parker swallowed. The arm was the size of a ham-hock.

"Why were you there?" he asked. "At the condo."

"Huh?"

"I remember stuff. About you," he said bluntly.

Well, Parker could handle blunt. She was great at blunt. "I don't know what you mean. And I don't want to talk about it, anyway. Ever." She scowled. "And anyhow, you weren't even awake for most of it."

Eliot's lips twitched. "You're talking about it," he pointed out.

Parker scrunched up her face at him, ugly.

"They won't tell me what you did, but I remember – pieces. You were there – " he squinted, obviously frustrated.– "I saw you, you had a g-"

"No I didn't," interjected Parker at once, cutting him off. "You're wrong. You don't remember any of it. You were out of your mind the whole time, muttering nonsense, having nightmares, _screaming_ –" Eliot flinched. "Now, excuse me, I have to go somewhere – else. To do things. That are important." Nodding decisively, she made to move by him, but was unexpectedly blocked by the ham-hock.

"You think I'm stupid? They're still pissed at you, I can tell, and you _were_ there. You did something. But why would you do that? _Why_?" He grabbed her arm and shook her, but not hard. "Tell me," he demanded, in a grunt.

She wasn't going to get out of this one: Eliot had just become the immovable object.

Parker crossed her arms and studied her shoelaces. "I don't have – anything," she said. Her voice was low, flat. _People are like locks_. "Except, like, 7 million in cash, maybe half that again in uncut stones." Eliot rolled his eyes. "And a couple properties. In case I need a getaway. And a plane."

"Practically nothing then," said Eliot.

"You know those old friends who remember what you were like as a kid?"

Eliot blinked at this unexpected line of reasoning.

"Or like, Aunts and Uncles, grade-school teachers? Just anybody who knew you – before?"

Eliot shrugged, nodded. "Sure."

"Not me." Parker shook her head. "There was no before. If nobody remembers you, you don't exist."

"That's stupid," said Eliot, who was not known for tact. "People saw you. People remember you – " but Parker was shaking her head.

"Nobody I know. Nobody would recognize me – " she smiled, vaguely. "There was a fire, after I left."

"How'd that happen?"

"Faulty wiring," was the honest answer.

Eliot sucked on his tongue and didn't comment. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I don't have a past. I don't have a family." Parker licked her lips. "This team, you guys – you're everything I have."

"That and about ten million dollars," Eliot pointed out. Maybe he was a little bitter about that.

"Right," Parker agreed. "And a plane. But you were in trouble and I just didn't want to lose any of what I've got left, that's all."

"Alright." Eliot let her go. "So it's nothing personal. That's all I needed to know."

"Of course it's personal," said Parker, puzzled. "I risked my life for you. I _ki _- uh, was willing to die for you. I carried you on my back. I _slept_ with you for two nights . . ."

"Woah, there," interjected Eliot hastily. "Be quiet before Hardison hears you say crazy junk like that."

Parker blinked, cocked her head. "Why would Hardison care?"

"Uh, never mind – the point is, I guess what I should say," he exhaled noisily out through his nose, "is, uh. I should – I'm trying to say, you know, that I appreciate –ah . . . "

"Are you trying to _thank_ me?" asked Parker, with interest. "This is almost as bad as when Sophie tried to apologize."

Eliot's face clouded over, then he sighed, and clapped her on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."

"Right back at ya," Parker cocked her index finger at him and clicked her tongue, then thought about it and quickly dropped her hands. "Just, uh, don't mention it. Like, ever."

"Don't think you have to worry about that." Now that his gratitude was behind him he was back to being brusque and irritable, she was relieved to note. "It's not like I even remember it, anyway." He pushed past her and headed down the hall way, although she noticed he was careful not to knock her bad leg. Which had long since healed.

Parker touched her face and realized she was smiling. Sophie couldn't apologize. Eliot couldn't say thank you. Hardison was bad at lying (he always oversold it). And she, Parker – well, she was bad at a lot of things. Empathy. Self-control. Small talk. Actually, pretty much the only thing she was good at was being a thief.

"Hey, girl, get in here, we're watching a movie. There's popcorn."

She skipped down the hallway to Nate's living room, where they were waiting for her.

Maybe there were a couple of other things she could do alright.

--

**FIN**

_Thanks to everyone who read or reviewed!_


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